


The Royal Library: Obey Me!

by blacklikethecolourof



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: F/M, M/M, Shameless Smut, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklikethecolourof/pseuds/blacklikethecolourof
Summary: This is just a place for me to collect all of the random, short bits that I do for this fandom. They'll mostly be 2nd person ('You&Y/N', etc), but if I slip up, forgib me.Note: NSFW are marked with asterisk!
Kudos: 97





	1. *Lucifer: Wine-Drunk

It starts in the evening.

As long as you've been at RAD, you've known many sides of Lucifer -- proud, dominant Morningstar, overprotective brother, loyal friend -- but you've never seen him like this. No, this is something else entirely. Your foggy mind can't recall the reason for such festivities -- all you know is that it had to do with end of year celebrations and a particularly smooth graduation for some of the upperclassmen. 

Your last class of the day is one that is full of nervous energy and playful banter -- at one point, Belphie gets an eraser stuck in your hair -- until you're free from the shackles of the lab, and all you can feel is your own exhaustion. That isn't any excuse, though, as you're soon to find out. 

You decide to duck into the study before heading up to your room, more out of idle curiosity than anything else -- well, that is what you tell yourself. After all, you have to keep up some sort of aloof front that you might maintain some of your dignity. Between you and Lucifer, it is a battle, a determination to not become completely overtaken by desire -- a battle that you are sorely losing, but that doesn't mean that you can't fight. After all, otherwise it would be disappointing, now, wouldn't it?

Light spills out from behind the bookcase -- you slip your fingers in between the crack and slip the hidden door open, entering the warm, dark room, the fire dancing behind the iron grate. But that isn't all that catches your attention -- the smell of alcohol, sharp and cloying on the air, and the image of Lucifer draped over his desk chair like a bastard king, a broken crown. 

His hair is pushed back from his blooded irises, as though he's been stubbornly running his gloved hands through it in an attempt to make it stay; his collar loosened, his tie undone and draped around his neck like a noose. In particular, your eyes are drawn to the crystal cup that brims with deep, disturbing liquid; the cut bottle on the desk is half-full. Someone's been having a good time.

Your hand wraps around the edge of the door -- a small part of you says that perhaps you shouldn't be seeing this intimate moment of Lucifer unbidden like this. But despite his clearly inebriated state, at the slightest movement, his head turns -- his sharp eyes pinning you with their heat -- and you know that he's been waiting for you, that he's been aware of your warmth since you stepped over the threshold.

"Now, now. You didn't think you would get away so easily, did you?" 

You can already feel your heart rising in your throat, but you leave your school bag down, taking a few hesitant steps across the plush carpet. Lucifer's eyes never leave you -- tracing hungrily over your form, as though he's grown tired of the glass in his hand, longing to drink from a deeper, more potent source. 

"I thought you might be… busy." 

"Mm. Come to me. Come on." One long finger beckons you, and you can't resist the call of those magical things. You come around the side of the desk, facing your master; and before you know it, Lucifer's strong hold wraps around your wrist, pulling you into his lap.

His arm folds around you and up, over your chest; tracing the path of your collarbones, delicate and reverent. Your breathing quickens as you feel his lips over your shoulder, the back of your neck. How in the Hell are you supposed to relax whenever you're near him like this? 

"Drink," he says simply, pushing the glass into your hand; and while you taste the sweet, stinging liquid, searing its way down your throat, a sharper sting at the back of your neck. You can't help but gasp and start, but Lucifer holds you firm in his embrace. 

The tip of his nose skims over your thin shirt, his tongue stirring up an achingly pleasant sensation in the pit of your stomach; followed by another sweet sting across the back of your shoulder, this time. You hadn't realized it, too pre-occupied by the taste of whatever poison it is that Lucifer's drinking, but his skilled fingers have undone the first two buttons of your shirt, inching down the starched collar to provide access to your smooth, unblemished skin. 

Again, the bite of pain on the curve of your shoulder, this time. You moan very gently despite your resolve, and you can feel Lucifer chuckling into your skin, leisurely pulling his iron fingers over the sensitive skin of your chest. All the muscles north of your heart clench, and you hear his tell-tale laugh again.

"So predictable." 

"I wouldn't be if you didn't insist on teasing me like this," you reply, and wait for the reprimand; but it doesn't come, and you figure that Lucifer must be even drunker than you originally thought. Oh, dear. He's meant to be up at 7 AM tomorrow to go on some hike that Diavolo is insisting on. 

Instead, Lucifer takes the glass from your hand and sets it on the desk, before seizing you by the hips as though you weigh nothing, readjusting you so that you can seem him now. You giggle, lightheaded -- not sure if it's from the alcohol, or from Lucifer's touch. But thoughts of your own mind are quickly dispelled as his lips find the sacred skin of your throat, painful and unrelenting. Your hand passes through his hair.

"Lucifer…" 

"Predictable and needy. Although I might expect less, from a human." He undoes the final buttons on your shirt, bearing your skin to the air and eliciting a shiver from you. It's not from the cold. The thin fabric drops to the ground in a fluid puddle. 

You can feel his arousal against your thigh, and you drop slightly on his lap, seeking the friction. Surprisingly, the usually controlled demon's reaction is immediate -- the low groan in the base of his throat, the way that his hands grip your waist like a vice.

"Stop that." 

"No." You bite back a grin and sway your hips very gently again, delighted as Lucifer's hand finds your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. They're deep with possessive lust, softened by care. 

"I don't repeat myself. You know that." 

"Then don't. Repeat yourself." You can't wait anymore -- your hand tightens around his slack tie and you kiss him, desperate for the taste of salt and desire and alcohol from his lips. While you occupy yourself with his mouth, Lucifer is, ever efficiently, undoing the buttons of your waistband and slipping the last of your uniform from you. 

His hands drift down your back, tantalizing, teasing, and over the curve of your ass; beginning to work the softer skin there, until he gives you a short, sharp slap, seemingly displeased with your delay in taking his trousers off. You can't help but giggle against his mouth before undoing the buckle of his belt, breaking from his lips to slide your hands along the smooth leather in awed reverence.

"God, I love this belt." 

"I know you do. Is that why you're so determined to vex me all the time? So that I might make you behave yourself with it?" Lucifer takes it from you, teasing the leather strap gently down your ass. Danger is making you wet already, almost soaking in anticipation. 

"Yes," you barely manage to get out, undoing his fly with shaking fingers and freeing him from his trousers. Fuck. His cock is rock hard and glistening, and you feel yourself almost immediately on the edge just looking at it. But Lucifer knows you. He knows your body, the way that you stiffen before giving out, and he takes your face back in his hands again with a stern look, his voice hoarsening as he issues a soft, dangerous command.

"Don't you dare." 

You moan again, your hips dipping down as you search for him to fill you, to satiate that ache inside of you so that you might come with his permission; taking the first few inches of him, all of your muscles clenching as you feel that sweet, pleasurable pain that only Lucifer can give you. You wrap both of your arms around his neck, your fingers lacing together and tangling in his beautiful black hair. 

"Lucifer." 

"Tell me what you need from me," he says, and his voice is nothing more than a breath against your damp skin.

"I--"

"Spit it out." You can feel his own hot breathing over your throat, and you cry out as you feel him shift beneath you; the action causing an almost seismic quake in your sex. 

"To fuck me. I… I need you to fuck me." 

"Where are your manners?"

"P-Please." 

"That's more like it," he says, and he thrusts, burying himself up to hilt within you. 

"Lucifer, fuck." 

"Watch that fucking mouth," he purrs, ever the tease, but his voice is rocky and unsteady as he rolls his hips, piercing back into you with more desperation before. You can feel it, the need from him, rolling off him in waves like smoke, and your fingers tighten again to pull at his thick locks. Shaking on your knees, you barely have time to straighten up before you impale yourself on his cock again, keening out a dark moan. 

"Lucifer, please." 

"Begging gets you nowhere, sweet thing." He is fucking you again and again, the speed of this thrusts picking up with every soft sob from your lips, every bruising kiss from your mouth. Your hands slip further and further under the collar of his shirt, burying themselves in the skin of his back, and you know that you're going to get your ass whipped for that if you leave marks. 

"A-ah." His mouth finds a new spot to nip and suck with every thrust as you push yourself against his cock as hard as you possibly can, desperate to calm this burning fire inside of you that feels so good, too good. You can feel the bruises blooming over the skin of your chest and neck, his marks, marking you in the most intimate places. They will serve as a reminder not only to his brothers, to anyone else, but to you. You are his. You are nothing but his. "Lucifer, I --" 

"Not yet." 

"I can't. I have to, I can't." Despite his command, you feel yourself shiver your own release, climaxing around Lucifer's arousal as you cry out again, into his shoulder. The action draws a deep growl from the centre of his chest, one that reverberates throughout his entire frame -- one that ends with your thighs sticky and dripping, coated in him. 

You're collapsed against him, your face pressed to his chest; you brace yourself for the inevitable punishment for coming without his permission, but it doesn't present itself. Instead, Lucifer's rather affectionate, drunken fingers pass back through your hair, pulling it from your face; and you're reminded that he's absolutely smashed. Oh, yeah. 

He presses a messy, gentle kiss to your shoulder; again, up over your neck, until you realize what he's doing when you see your own scarlet blood on his lips.

"… did you bite me?" 

"I'll ignore that question." He rolls his eyes, enveloping you into a tighter embrace. The alcohol and the exertion of that intimate fucking has you exhausted, and you don't protest as he draws his coat around the both of you; the soft, quilted interior is kind against your bruised back and ass. "Now. Rest. You're up early tomorrow morning." 

You feel yourself freezing in his arms. "No… you're up early." 

His chuckle is sadistic. "Foolish of you to think that you wouldn't suffer for disobeying me." 

And that's when you realize that you're also going on the damn hike.


	2. Satan: In the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SWF Satan cuteness.

He's not usually much of a lurker, is Satan, but it's different when it comes to you.

Now, it was an accident. Okay, maybe it was half an accident. Maybe, behind the insistence that he needed even more new reading material, was the suggestion that you might be there; legs crossed in your school uniform, head buried in a book, completely deaf to the world around you. He loves how you look when you're like that -- your eyes are full of ocean battles, magical storms, endless enchanted forests and knights in shining armour. Satan is no knight, he knows this. He knows that in stories like these, he's the villain. The epicentre of conflict and evil in any tale -- the whirlpool of anger inside him is textbook. And yet, he seems to forget himself when he's around you. The howling waves are soothed. The sea floor goes back to sleep, for a while. And he can lose himself in you, like you have lost yourself in whatever volume is in your hands this week.

He knows where your favourite spot is -- by a window that overlooks the expanse of the meadow outside, a tiny table that is adorned with two soft, squishy chairs. It creates the perfect atmosphere, you always say. If the wind and rain is hammering outside; if the sun is shining; if the clouds are wrapping the earth in a warming blanket, it sets the scene. So he settles himself on a bench some three or four shelves away. You're in view, perfectly aligned between the gaps in the furniture. Thank the Demon King that the sun is shining today, because it's running its fingers through your hair, kissing your temples, worshipping the softness of your cheeks. That skirt. Those little socks pulled up, one slightly higher than the other -- absentmindedly, he can't help but chuckle quietly into his fist, determined not to interrupt the equilibrium of library silence in case he is exposed. But he can't help himself. It's just so damn… cute.

Satan isn't close enough to see what you're reading; but it’s a pink cover, so he's guessing that it's a romance of some kind. He reads everything, so of course, he has seen his fair share of those kinds of novels in his time. If he focuses a little more, he can make out a familiar figure in a cream dress; when you shift, slightly, your hair gleaming brilliantly in the afternoon, he catches the corner of a title and smiles to himself. It's Jane Eyre. Of course.

Again, you pierce through the clouds around his heart, straight to the eye of the storm -- an assault on the wrath that everyone knows so well. Jane Eyre. The story of a brave, smart, resourceful girl; the redemption of the dark, imperfect Mr. Rochester. It's like a realization that that you know. That you see him. So he can't help himself as he gets to his feet, weaving stealthily in between chairs so that he can eventually come upon you by the window seat. 

His approaching shadow draws your attention, and you look up at him with a smile so wounding, he's week at the knees. His hand rests on the table as he sits down opposite you, and you reach out to slip yours over it; gentle and welcoming. 

"Hey… there's no talking in the library, you know." 

You giggle. It kills him. 

"Maybe we should leave, then." 

"Oh, what I'm envisioning doesn't involve talking, kitten." He leans across the table, propped up on one elbow; his hand slips up your face, a thumb running gently down the bridge of your nose. He can feel you tense slightly, and he delights in it; the shift in your pulse, the heat in your cheeks. But there's no resisting. None at all, as he takes you by the hand, pulling you away from the table by the window. You barely have time to snag your bag, giggling behind your hand as he guides you.

No one knows the labyrinth of the library better than Satan; and that shows, when he leads you into a secluded corner, the very end of the section on cooking, a place that only Beel frequents. You drop your bag to the floor, both of your hands pressing against Satan's jacket as his fingers find your waist, curling. Up against the wall. The curves of your body perfectly match the contours of his, like two puzzle pieces finding themselves. 

Your touch slips up his chest, closing around the back of his neck and curling in the soft, short hair there, just within your reach. You're taken when he kisses you. There's nothing else but his gentle, possessive mouth on yours, the taste of brimstone and honey. The smell of him spicing your nostrils, the hammering of your blood beneath your skin. Wrath is all-encompassing, and you love it. You'd give anything for it. 

He pulls away slightly, reaching up to trace a lock of hair away from your face. He can't stop his smile; small, soft, silly. Almost like Lucifer's given him a thwack across the back of the head.

"You're like something out of a fairy tale, Jei." A princess. An enchantress. A lover. 

"And what does that make you? The dragon guarding the castle?" You giggle, passing your hands back through his shimmering locks. He's like nothing else you've ever seen; an image cast in gold and emeralds, brought to life by the regal breath of a prince. Too good to be true. And you have to keep reminding yourself that this is not a dream, that you're here in his arms, that you're his.

"Definitely. Don't forget the fire-breathing, that's important." 

You laugh again, your head thrown back, and Satan has decided that if something out there decides to strike him down in this spot, he'll be dying happy. 

"You know how cute you look when you read? You get this little wrinkle, right here…" 

And Satan presses his thumb gently between your eyebrows, 

"… like you're concentrating really hard. So you're kind of scowling at the book. It's adorable." 

Your cheeks colour pink, and you hide behind your hands; but, laughing, he peels them away from your face, kissing the tip of your nose again.

"Hey, stop that or I came all this way for nothing." 

"All this way? Were you following me, Satan?" You grin, the smile widening as you see a slight blush beginning to pool beneath his cheeks.

"No. I don't follow."

"You did!" 

"Oh, shush." 

"Make me." Your giggle is louder than ever, and Satan presses another kiss to your lips, to ensure that no one else's attention is drawn to your dark, secret corner of the library. This second embrace is deeper, searching further, longing to experience everything about you in that moment. You're the story he can't put down, the ultimate page turner, and all he can do is devour it all and hope that there's a sequel.


	3. *Lucifer: Party Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW Dom! Luci.

He warned you to behave.

Afterwards, when you can't walk straight, you tell yourself that it was his fault for presenting the challenge in the first place. However, a small part of you does remind yourself that you should have known that Lucifer doesn't fuck around. Not when it comes to his reputation, anyway.

It was a party, what the humans would call a 'black-tie' affair -- a group of the Devildom's finest and most refined coming together to rub elbows and talk about how excellent it was that they were finally making progress with human and angel relations, and essentially sticking their heads so far up Diavolo's ass that their horns are tickling his tonsils. Therefore, yourself, Solomon, Simeon and Luke were the guests of honour. And as Lucifer's partner, you were under a special kind of scrutiny. Demons and humans coupled together romantically? Who had ever heard of such a thing? Once more proof of Diavolo's greatness, of course. 

But Lucifer knows what you're like, and both he and Diavolo had an image to protect. It didn't matter what he was like behind closed doors -- when he was taking sadistic pleasure in fucking you so hard it hurt, torturing the most sensitive areas of your body, punishing you for the slightest infraction -- at this party, it was paramount that he projected an air of suave, powerful, and respected sensibility. So he told you, his crimson eyes boring deep into your own, that if you didn't stay in line, there would be hell to pay. 

And so, you entered the Demon Lord's castle perched on the Morningstar's arm, every bit the jewel of the exchange programme -- not a hair out of place, and perfectly styled in an elaborate, pleasing gown that kissed every one of your curves. The party was already in full swing. Music sang out across the main hall, beautiful strings and piano, as light and pleasant as a chaste kiss. The attendees had their fingers -- in some cases, their claws -- wrapped around champagne glasses, laughing and joking with each other; and Lucifer was already straight in, snagged by Diavolo to parade around, the crown jewel in the diamond suite that is the seven brothers. You, of course, followed after him. Package deal.

The two of them were embroiled in conversation with one of the Demon King's court representatives, and an angel or two in ceremonial formal wear; when someone directed a question to you.

"And how are you enjoying the party, dear?"

"Oh?" You turned your head slightly, tilting on your neck; and gave a soft, pretty smile. "I'm having a lovely time, thank you."

"I should think so, being Lucifer's date." 

"Oh, he's my date," you replied coyly; inspiring laughs all round. Lucifer laughed in turn, his low, rich baritones pricking you all over; but his hand, by the curve of your waist, gave you a gentle, warning squeeze.

Don't.

"And the exchange programme is treating you well?" 

"I'm enjoying it, mostly," you returned, feeling Lucifer's hold tightening on you.

"Oh?"

"Well, some more freedom would be nice." 

"We can't have you wandering off and getting eaten up by a lower-level demon, now, can we?" Your boyfriend said with a soft chuckle.

"No, of course not. That's your job." 

There were a few beats of shocked silence, before the group of men found themselves in uproarious fits of laughter, Diavolo especially. Lucifer, apparently, did not find the situation as funny as the rest; his smile was frozen on his face.

"Please, excuse her. I think she's had a little too much to drink." 

"She's only telling the truth, old friend," Diavolo grinned. "Anyway, gentlemen, shall we take things into the next room? Barbatos requested some excellent cigars from the Celestial Realm, I would appreciate if you indulged me. Lucifer?" 

"In a moment -- I best first ensure that Mammon isn't trying to liberate the silverware." 

Their footsteps fell into sync as they moved away from the intimidating portrait of Diavolo that they were standing beneath; but Lucifer already had you by the wrist, pulling you away from the crowds, and towards a corridor that you knew led towards the bathrooms. You could barely contain your surprise, barely able to get out, what the hell are you doing?

"I warned you. You can't say I didn't." The door swung shut behind you, ushering you into a decently modern-looking bathroom; the stalls of a rich, black wood, the walls marbled grey, and the white sinks set in similar material. Dimly lit, vaguely threatening; only more so, when Lucifer passed a hand over the keyhole, prompting the locking mechanism to click.

Oh, no.

I'm in danger.

"Lucifer -- here? Now? Diavolo is going to be wondering --" 

"Fuck what Diavolo is wondering." 

He took you by the hips, his strong fingers pressing deeply into your soft skin as he bent you over the sink. You found yourself grasping at the sleek, slippery taps; searching for a hold to keep yourself in place. Heat rising in your cheeks, your breaths beginning to catch -- sure, you knew you would pay, but you didn't think that he'd pull this shit out in the middle of one of Diavolo's parties.

"You embarrassed me. You embarrassed Diavolo," he began, dropping to roll the hem of your tight dress stealthily up your body. 

"Diavolo seemed to -- seemed to think it was funny." 

"Well, I certainly didn’t." Your ass is laid bare to the cold air, now, your skirt around your waist; and you're already wet in anticipation. Shit. "I can't bring you anywhere, can I? No matter how many times I warn you, you insist on misbehaving." 

"Lucifer --" 

The first slap came out of nowhere, a sharp sound that reverberated around the small room. You let out a small squeak, but refused to give him anything else.

"Oh, that’s the game you're looking to play, is it?" 

Another blow across the second cheek, that time -- both of them open and stinging to the air, like raw wounds. 

Another, another, another. Lucifer refused to pause in between each assault, to caress and soothe the area with his gentle fingers like he normally would. No, that was punishment at its finest. And despite his intent, you could feel yourself more and more aroused with each spank, until your panties were saturated between your thighs. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"Ow, ow! Okay, Lucifer, I get it -- I'm sorry!"

"You're never sorry," and you heard the sound of his zipper.

In an instant, Lucifer had taken you, one hand sneaking up your back and wrapping itself in your hair for extra stability; you moaned in ecstasy, closing tightly around him and welcoming his intrusion. He arched his hips; and in the mirror, you could see his magnificent, beautiful face, bearing down on you with an expression of cool control. Not a hair out of place. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. He withdrew, but only slightly; so that he could use the leeway he'd given himself to fill you up fully again, and again, and again, a merciless assault on your poor cunt. It wasn't long before his deft fingers were at your nipple, cold from their presence against the marble; the sensation jarred you, causing you to buck back into his hips. It took everything that you had not to scream out a plea, a cry, to please just keep going, to -- 

"Oh, Lucifer!" 

But just when you thought that you were about to come messily undone, he stopped -- unceremoniously pulling out. You were a sight -- your mascara painted in streaks beneath your eyes from your frenzied tears, your hair ruined, your lips bruised and bleeding from the way that you'd bitten them in an attempt to control yourself. Your chest, heaving. Your expression wild.

"What? What?"

Lucifer ignored you, instead wrapping one hand around his deliciously hard length; and he had, with a few strokes, relieved himself. Oh, so that was the game he was going to play? You reached down to yourself with a mind to ruin his plan, but Lucifer was too quick, to smart for you. Oh, he already had both of your wrists in his long fingers.

"No, you don't." 

"Lucifer, this isn't… nice." Your comeback was lame, but it got a smile out of him; and you felt yourself becoming somewhat relieved, despite your sexual frustration.

"Hands on my shoulders when I let them go. Yes?" 

With a sigh, you nodded, agreeing to the order. Lucifer released you; and you let your hands settle carefully on his shoulders, the sensation of your needy arousal slick over the insides of your thighs. You shifted slightly in your stance, trying to offer yourself some relief; but Lucifer's strong touch boosts you up onto the counter, preventing you from meddling any more with his plans for you.

A thumb passed gently under both eyes, cleaning away the smudged mascara; Lucifer was careful to remove any trace of the make-up, leaving you soft and tired-eyed. His hands passed up around your neck, then, pulling out the haphazard pins and beginning to re-adjust your hairstyle, so that you wouldn't look like you'd just been fucked over a sink. You couldn't help but let out a sigh, high and reedy, in an attempt to disguise how desperate you were to have him between your legs again. Your core muscles were aching, your ass and thighs pained; and without sweet release, that was all they would be. Aching. 

"What is it?"

"What do you think it is? Please let me finish." 

"Your actions have consequences, dove." He kissed the end of your nose as he finished tweaking your hair, before pulling you back off the counter and setting you on your feet. His hands found the hem of your skirt, beginning to roll it down. But as he did so, he hooked his thumbs in your lace panties, dragging them with him. 

"Lucifer!" 

"These are mine," he replied, almost cheerfully, and stood; towering above you, an impressive, deathly shadow. He then stuffed your hot-pink underwear into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and offered his arm to you, ever the gentleman.

"Shall we?"


	4. Asmodeus: Bath Time

The rain caught you unawares, unfortunately.

You had decided to head into two after your classes, partially to pick some things up for Lucifer; partially because you needed a damn break from everything. Mammon hanging out of you all of the time was overwhelming; the eldest brother’s stark, barking orders intense; the simmering frustration beneath the facades of Satan and Belphegor unpredictable, and threatening. You’d found yourself wandering around most of the shops aimlessly, peering at too-expensive clothes, too-elaborate gadgets, books in tongues that you could not understand. Even your escapism wasn’t working, and it seemed as though there was nothing to be done for the swirling mess of thoughts that had made their home inside your brain. 

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, it started to pour. 

As soon as you heard the winds begin to pick up, your eyes found the disturbed storm clouds; and, realizing the incoming weather, scooped all of your materials up and fled from the small table you’d been occupying inside Madame Scream’s. You pounded out an concentrated, scared rhythm in your RAD-issued footwear, gunning up the hill towards the gates; your heart hammering the whole time. If I ruin these books, I’m dead. If I smash this ink, I’m dead. If I drop these shirts – 

Your foot found a stone, and you plummeted to the ground; a fierce mess of papers and stained fabric. Pain shooting up your legs and back, your lungs fighting to regulate your breaths again. The rain soaked into your shirt, plastering it against your skin with an ice-cold ruthlessness. Once you caught sight of the torn books, the broken bottles, you began to cry.

It all took over. In fact, you were barely able to muster enough energy to drag your bag up to RAD alongside you, your head bowed against the powerful swathe of rain. Each step becoming more and more sodden, until finally, you slam the front door of the House of Lamentation, steaming the air with your cold breath.

Yet, it’s no better in here. Levi is screaming over his head set in his bedroom; Belphegor and Beelzebub are fighting about an eaten pillow, and the always predictable Mammon is getting himself ripped a new asshole by Lucifer in the kitchen. Great. Maybe you should have stayed splayed out on the path; after all, that’s going to be you in an hour’s time, once Lucifer discovers what you’ve done. 

You sniff pathetically, wiping your nose on the back of your hand; it comes away dark with make up, and you sigh.

“Hello, gorgeous~”

“Asmo,” you sigh, trying to prevent the tears from falling, “I’m not in the mood.” 

“Not in the mood for Asmo? What ever do you mean~?” His lyrical voice teases, but the playful mood is cut short as he sees the way your head dips down, your lip quivering. “What is it, M/C? What happened?” 

His hands find your shoulders; with a flinch, he realizes your damp state. “You’re soaking wet. No, no, this won’t do at all. Do you want to catch a cold? You would look so cute, though… with your little red nose and cheeks, sneezing all the time.” His hands find your face, thumbs sweeping beneath the sockets of your eyes, cleaning some of the mascara from your skin. “Come, now. Come and let Asmo-chan pamper you.” 

“Asmo –” 

“I simply won’t take no for an answer, darling.” He takes your fingers in his, holding on tightly to them as he coaxes you up the stairs, towards his bedroom.

The Avatar of Lust’s personal space is like something out of a fantasy – a luxurious four poster bed, decked in lush greenery and peach roses, to compliment the darker tones of his silk bedspread. The ornate vanity is crowded with cut glass bottles and elegant brushes, heavy-handled mirrors. And the jewellery – well, it’s everywhere, dripping in gold, silver, precious stones. Your mood lightens ever so slightly. Well, it really is beautiful.

“On the bed,” Asmodeus says firmly, and you try – and fail – to fix him with a scathing look.

“No way – “

But his hands have found your shoulders, and sat you down gently – but firmly – on the covers. You open your mouth again to argue – and instead, fall silent, as you see him prop your foot up on his bent knee, his skilled fingers beginning to undo the laces. 

“Fastest hands in the Devildom,” you joke weakly, reaching out to find his curls. “Asmo, really, I – it’s okay.” 

“I’ve wanted to play with you for a while,” is his comment. He dips his fingers past the band of your stockings, rolling them down with a careful, deliberate hand. “Just let Asmo-chan do what he does best.” 

“Which is?”

A wicked grin passes his lips as he gets to his feet, his errant hands now finding your collar. “Self care~!”

*

And that is how you’ve found yourself in the middle of Asmo’s private bathroom, in a very thin silk robe. After some begging, he relented in giving you something to preserve your modesty; but Asmodeus himself is bent over the taps in nothing but his own confidence, and you can’t help but admire the shape that he casts. The lithe, muscled curves of his backside and thighs; the creaminess of his skin, the kiss-like tattoos that stain him. You must stare. You’re compelled to.

If Asmo wasn’t providing such a distraction, you would see that the bathroom itself is a surprisingly small, but attractive room; Victorian in style, with a high ceiling, and a half-tiled wall that borders the entire space in neat, midnight blue tiles. The off-white of the claw-foot tub harmoniously ties every other fixture together; and the window behind it is wide, exposing everything. Your face goes pale at the thought of anyone catching a glance of you and Asmo in the damn bath together. Lucifer would never permit you to live it down.

“I – someone will see–!” You squeak; but he turns, with a shake of his head and a sigh.

“Silly-billy. It’s pitch black out there.” He crosses the room, away from the steaming bath, and undoes the knot around your waist. His eyes, however, are not focused on what he is about to reveal; they are instead fixed upon your face, pooling rosé and gold. Concern radiates from him, and this… this is not something that you have experienced from him before. This intensity, this… worry. 

“Will you let me look after you?” You robe is open; your face, cradled in his hands. “Please, darling.” 

Your eyes flicker shut, and it takes some effort; but you nod your consent. Asmo slips the silk from your shoulders, and takes you by the hand.  
He steps into the waters first, and guides you along with him; the pair of you ascend a set of steps, and lower yourselves down into the warm caress of the awaiting bath. You’re suddenly awash in the scent of roses and lavender; and already, you can feel yourself becoming… heavy.

“That’s it, love,” Asmo says quietly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, drawing you back into his embrace. The breadth of his chest always surprises you; but there it is, strong and constant, rising and falling with each breath that he takes. You close your eyes once more, and allow yourself to completely relax against the comfort of his form. “Good, good. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” His laugh sparkles in the air, and you laugh with him.  
“I suppose not.” 

“Mmm.” He brushes your locks back, shifting slightly below you as he plucks a bottle from the shelf. “Night petunias will be perfect for your hair.” 

“Isn’t that that expensive stuff?” You yawn. The chill that set in earlier is gone, replaced by a cosy, stirring feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’ve spent more on less,” he trills, and the cold shampoo penetrates your scalp. Diligent fingertips scratch against your skin; you’re purring in satisfaction, something that calls Asmo’s giggle forth again. 

“If you keep moving like that, you’ll get me too excited, you little minx.” 

“I can’t help it! It feels so good. Mmm.” His touch snakes down over your bare shoulders, across your midriff again; a gentle, unprompted kiss finds the back of your neck. “Rest for Asmo. Think about all those horrible other things later, okay? If you worry, you’ll scowl, and that will ruin how pretty you look.” 

“Sorry about the view,” you grin, but your body is already so relaxed, so warm… the feeling of Asmodeus beneath you, the storm rattling the windowpane…

And you sleep.


	5. Simeon: The Caregiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SFW Simeon; third person.

The girl with rose petals on her lips and diamonds in her eyes; the illustrations of the gods across her cheeks, summer sunlight in her hair. The image of perfect imperfection. Always so generous, so eager, to lend a hand in other’s lives; to fix their problems, whether they be troubles of the heart, of the mind, or simply of the material. She never ceased. And therein lay her flaw. 

He watched her day by day – his crystal gaze attentive, clocking every move, every slight sigh, every sagging of the shoulders. She would insist, with cheerful abandon, that she was just fine, that he had no need to worry, that everything would be alright if she could just move through this next week, this next month, this next – 

No. 

It came to a pause one particularly busy afternoon, when she found herself feeling a little more deflated than usual; strung-out, worn-out, and as always, near-exhausted in her reservoir of compassion, but never quite. Her coat found the gnarled wooden stand in the corner of the hallway, and she dragged herself towards the stairs, intent on getting a start on her homework lest Lucifer – 

“Darling.”

“Hm?” She barely registered the sound of her name; turning on her heel, though, her heart started to thrum with more intensity as she found the source of the voice. Simeon. He caught her gently by the wrists, pulling her away from the steps and sitting her, very carefully, down beside the banister.   
Whenever one of the demon brothers moved to hold her hand, or jostled her, messing around just a little too much, there was always that slight jolt of realisation that they could crush her, even if only by chance. But with Simeon, she never felt that. His fingertips brushed softly against the inside of her wrist as he knelt beside her, one hand slipping up underneath her curls, to cradle her cheek.

“When was the last time you slept?” His voice was stern – as stern as he could manage in his worry, his thumb gently nudging her jaw. “Hey? Talk to me.”   
“I… I can’t remember.” 

“Come with me. Come on, now, I won’t take no for an answer.” He was slightly amused, guiding her to her feet and wrapping an arm around her waist; with a measured grace, Simeon took the steps two-by-two, eventually ducking into a room that she hadn’t previously seen before. It was dark inside, with the scent of comfort and the promise of warmth. 

A soft snap of his fingers, and a light in the corner of the room threw the full chamber into relief. A low-ceilinged bedroom, occupied by a massive bed, candles on every available surface; but that wasn’t the true element of note. The walls and overhead were characterized by midnight-blue velvets, studded with silver; the floor was plush black carpet. Like the inside of a galaxy. She was able to raise her head slightly to peer at the room in interest – only realizing now that at some point, he had taken her into his arms, and she was cradled against his broad chest. Angels had heartbeats? Who knew. His was moving particularly fast, like the thrumming of a bird’s wings. 

“Alright. Easy.” Simeon carefully ensured that she was cushioned by the bed. His deft fingers undid each pearly button on her soft shirt, stripping it away. His touch was… gentle. Reverent, the pads of his fingers ghosting just underneath the elegance of her collarbone, trailing down her arms. Next was her skirt, which he draped neatly at the end of the bed. 

And she was so beautiful – so pure in her bare form, with sleep kissing her eyes and the light of the manufactured stars on her peachy skin, throwing her resplendence into sharp relief. It would be amiss to let his eyes wander, though; so Simeon propped her foot up on his waiting knee, pulling the laces free, and slipping her stockings down with a practiced care. 

His tapered fingers found her curls, and Simeon used the opportunity to guide her head to the awaiting pillow, where she almost moaned in relief. He chuckled, one finger gently nudging the tip of her nose. She sighed further down into the bedsheets.

“That bad, huh?”

“That bad,” Simeon echoed, catching one of her hands with a small smile, and now that she was safely tucked away in bed, he could kiss her. And so he did. His mouth caught hers, urging her lips to part slightly. Cool breath floating over her face, carrying with it the scents of sugar and hazel. She couldn’t help it; she giggled.

“Has Luke been making tarts again?”

“Oh, how did you guess?” He grinned, one arm over her chest; passing his fingers back through her hair again. A purr from his little one, and she snuggled a little closer into his hand, her eyes drooping shut again.

“Stay with me?” 

“Always,” was the reply.


	6. *Asmodeus: Skinny Dipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW Asmodeus shenanigans.

The heat is killing.

Why didn't anyone warn you that the Devildom came with heat waves like the rest of the freakin' cosmos? Okay, maybe you should have made the jump yourself, but still. Every time you move, you can feel your clothes sticking to you, uncomfortably clammy in the worst kind of way. It doesn't make it any better that this school uniform is like, twenty five pounds of cotton on top of an already sweaty body. 

So, the relief of getting it all off at the end of the day comes close to the sweetest sensation you think you've ever experienced. In fact, you find yourself audibly moaning as you undo the first few buttons of your shirt, opening your sweltering chest up to the cool evening air. The same goes for your trousers, cast off and aside like a dirty word. But soon, you find the heat stickily crawling up your skin again, making it impossible to settle at all.

Like magic, when you're tossing and turning in your bedsheets, trying to find the cooler spots of the mattress as you do so, you hear a text ping through the silence of the night. 

I heard moaning~

Asmodeus. His timing is comical.

Your heart beating slightly faster, you text back.

I can't stand the heat.

A few moments pass. Then, you receive another message: 

Come meet me x Don't bother wearing anything else but your robe, lovely, we're going swimming! X

He knows you sleep naked, because of course he does. But going swimming? Swimming with Asmodeus means one thing…

This is a silly idea, isn't it? If someone caught you -- if Lucifer caught you -- oh, you'd be in so much trouble. But the allure of the water of the lake washing over you… And him… 

He knows you can't resist him.

So, you wrap your gown around you, belting it loosely at the waist, and let yourself out very carefully into the hallway. Everything in the House of Lamentation is still, silent; time, petrified. If you didn't know better, maybe you'd be frightened. But you know what's waiting for you at the top of the stairs; and so, as carefully as you can, you take each step, ensuring that any creak is rare and dissipated by the night, the product of an old house moving.

Eventually, you come to his room -- your intention was to message once you'd arrived, but he's already waiting for you. A god in a pale robe, weeping from his shoulders to expose his beautiful, perfect chest. The moonlight finds him wherever he moves, dripping silver down the crevices of his chest; the ultimate treasure. 

Asmodeus can never stop himself, despite the constant danger of Lucifer's lurking under your nose; and so, his gentle hands find your arms, slipping up them to anchor in your hair. A deep, bruising kiss that sends both of you breathless -- and he's a demon, so that's not an easy job, but, well… that's just what you do to him.

"We'll be caught," you murmur, but you can't help but moan into his mouth, melting beneath his skilled lips. He places another kiss to you, dragging a path of fire down the sharpness of your jaw, before he pulls back; lust shining in his eyes. Apt.

"Oh, you're no fun. Come then, darling." He takes you by the hand, and the two of you creep carefully down the stairs, and out the front door; careful to ensure that the click is muffled, doesn't sound around the entrance hall.

And then, you are out amongst the stars. The night is crisp and refreshing, even though residual heat lurks under the surface of the clouds; you can already feel the relief as Asmodeus coaxes you along the crunching gravel path, down towards the mirror-like surface of the lake that hides behind the trees. Despite the fact that it is technically school property, it is secluded; and few find themselves there. Perhaps it is just Asmodeus' territorialism over the place that keeps them away? Who knows? 

The shore is slightly sandy, and slopes into the midnight waters, a gradient step to coax you down. The cool water laps over your feet as you approach; but before you can go any further, Asmodeus halts you, with a gentle arm around your waist. 

"Oh, no you don't. Not with those clothes." 

"Asmo…" You trail off, and your eyes sweep the treeline. "What if someone's --"

"I would say let them watch, but you have to trust me. There's no one here." His deft fingers undo the knot around your waist, his other hand cupping your cheek -- but in his eyes is a question. He still holds your robe closed. 

May I?

You nod; and with unbridled joy, Asmodeus' slips the silken cloth from your body, exposing you to the world. You can see it in every one of his features -- the reverent curl of his lips, the glittering of his eyes, the rosy flush in his cheeks. He is drinking in every single inch of you in an attempt to draw this picture in his mind forever. 

He draws you close and kisses you again, his own robe thrown from his form in an enthusiastic satin arc; consuming your senses. Asmodeus has a habit of doing that. Of taking over all that he can, leaving no prisoners. A kiss with Asmodeus is a jagged little pill -- because once it passes your lips, you can never have anything else as good again. 

He manages to pull away for a moment to grasp your fingers, and take the first few steps into the lake; you follow, led by the Avatar of Lust. Once the cold, clear water rises past your knees, past you -- oh! -- you squeal, and he giggles, turning around so that he can face you. There he is again; marble and moonlight, as pale as anything, as perfect as a Renaissance mythic. What did you do to deserve this fallen angel?

"Is something tickling you, my darling?" 

You blush, and he laughs again, a damp thumb gliding over your cheek. Dispersing droplets like stars in the sunset. Deeper, deeper, until the water is up past your waist, tweaking and teasing your skin until everything is standing on end…. And that means everything.

Asmodeus pauses, both of his hands on your shoulders; running his touch down over your chest, feeling your nipples stiffening beneath his touch. With a delighted grin, his lips find the edge of your neck once more, an old friend -- caressing, sucking, leaving his mark on you in the most sensuous of ways. All the while his hands are moving lower, lower -- around your hips, over the soft curves of your ass. 

Before you have a moment to consider it, you feel his strong arms hooking beneath you, encouraging your legs up around his waist -- you squeal in delight, the buoyancy of the water only making the action more exhilarating, tickling the pit of your stomach. But, of course. His ultimate kink is you, and he's already hard.

Your knees tighten at his hips, and you wrap both arms tightly around his neck, mussing up his gorgeous hair as you kiss him fully, deeply, the smell of flowers and sex wafting down over you. Soon, your breaths are gasps, your chest heaving as you struggle to keep up with your own attraction to him; Asmodeus is a drug, a spell, everything and anything that puts you under. It isn't long before you're begging him to take you, and he finds himself home in the sweetest, most welcoming confines of you. 

"Asmo--" 

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on," he murmurs in your ear, his fingers caught up possessively in your hair. Sharp teeth, sharp nails, an edge to everything as he moves deeply within you, filling every inch of your sex. "The most beautiful thing, love. You know that? You know that, don't you?" 

"Asmodeus!"

"Again, my gorgeous girl, call me again," he purrs against your skin. You throw your head back, your desperate plea echoing in between the constellations.

"Asmodeus, please!"

And like a thousand stitches, all at once; you come undone, snapping at the seams as you call out his name. And when you do -- when you do -- his mouth has captured yours again, insistent and demanding -- owning every part of you as he guides the both of you a little closer towards oblivion.


	7. Mammon: A Visit to the Human World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SFW Mammon cuteness.

It’s a blustery autumn day.

The wind runs its errant fingers through your hair; playful and precocious, flicking strands into your eyes and mouth. You reach up to pull some of the locks free, your friends laughing at you as you struggle with your scarf, your books, your bag. 

“You’re hopeless, M/C,” one of them grins, snagging your binder so that you’ll have a bit more room to wrestle with the strong breeze. “How did you last a year in Japan by yourself? Honestly.” 

Ah, yes, the Japan story. Well, you’d needed some way to cover up your mysterious absence in the middle of the school year – and a trip to Japan allowed you to explain away your online presence by lamenting that the timezones just didn’t add up, what a shame(!) Well, it did the job that it needed to.

Days like this were always so much fun in the Devildom. Beel would roll you up like a marshmallow in his jacket, insulating you against the breeze; afraid that your tiny human form would be susceptible to every type of cold and flu that the cold weather would have to offer. Asmodeus would force you to plaster yourself in face mask as soon as you got home; Lucifer would silently surprise you with a mug of steaming hot soup – 

Someone’s gentle nudge to your arm startles you out of your reminiscing, your companion frowning slightly behind their own thick scarf as they indicate towards the college gates.

“Hey, M/C?”

“Mmm?” 

“Do you know that guy? He’s staring. Like, pretty intensely, actually.” 

Your eyes dart up, sweeping from side to side, and eventually locating him. Hands plunged into the pockets of his dun jacket, his head bowed slightly against unrelenting gusts of air. Dark jeans, shining gold piercings in his ears. When his eyes meet yours, his blue-yellow irises tinted green behind those familiar glasses, you take off. You don’t even make the decision to run. It’s your body propelling you forward, step by intense step covering more ground than you thought possible, in a desperate attempt to prove to yourself that this isn’t your over-active imagination, that it isn’t a dream, that it’s really him, he’s really here –

You crash into a wall of spiced cologne and cold leather, your arms looping around Mammon’s middle like you’re drowning, and he’s crushing you so hard against him that you think you might die, right here, happier than you could ever be. He’s so warm, so unbelievably warm and welcoming and there, a flesh and blood man before you. Mammon. Here. In the Mortal Realm. 

“Oi, Treasure, what’re you doin’ gunnin’ over to me like that? You were two seconds away from falling flat on your face.” 

His hands find your shoulders, distancing you slightly so that he can have a better look at you – and you realize that you’re crying, the wind freezing the tears on your face. His mouth slumps into an uncertain frown.

“What? What is it? Should I of waited at your place? I thought –” 

“I’m just happy to see you, stupid,” you sniff, balling your sleeve in your fist and wiping beneath your eyes. The relieved relaxation of his shoulders is tangible. “What are you doing here?! How did you get permission from Lucifer to do this?” 

“Hm. Well. You see. That part’s – I guess you could say I –” 

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

“He don’t, no.” 

You giggle despite your streaming eyes. “Well, I’m not going to be the one to tell him.” 

“I can always rely on you, can’t I? That’s why you’re my human.” His cheeky grin is infectious, and soon you’re properly laughing, the feeling burning through your ribs. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’re gonna be hanging from the ceiling for a thousand years, Mammon.” 

“Not if he don’t catch me, alright? He’s at Diavolo’s castle the whole day. Some sorta fancy party thing that he’s organizin’.” You feel the weight of his fingers in yours, the metal of his rings pressing into your skin with a comforting kind of pressure. One ring on the titular finger, two on the middle, one on the index, one on the thumb. You run your own touch back and forth over the bands, protected from sight by his palm; closed tightly over yours. It’s Mammon’s hand. It couldn’t ever be anyone else’s. “Anyway, it’s not like I made a huge effort to come up and visit you or nothin’, but if I did, it’d kinda be on you to entertain me the whole day. Just saying.” 

“Oh, so that’s how you’re going to play it?” 

“M/C?”

Your friends are staring at you, wide-eyed, about two meters away from you and the Second Prince of Hell. Ah, yes. Introductions.

“Oh, right, guys – I’m so sorry. This is, um, Mammon. He – I –” 

“Uhh, M/C stayed with my family last year. We hosted them.” Mammon, despite his stubborn insistence that you are the exception to the rule when it comes to humans, is turning a soft shade of pink. Oh, that’s cute.

Not for long.

“You’re Mammon?” One of your friends grins with relish. “They never shut up about you. Always talking about how funny you are –” 

“M/C talks about me?” Mammon’s eyes flicker to you briefly; and oh, no, he’s mortified.

“Thanks for that!” You squeak, snagging your binder from your classmate’s arms; chuckles abound, and you take Mammon by the hand again. “Well, he’s not in town for long, so, um, we’re just gonna – okay, yep, thanks, bye.” 

“You talk about me?” Mammon continues as you speed away, his blush starting to calm slightly as you clear the group of humans. “Whaddya say?”

“Oh, um, the usual stuff, you know.” You’re on fire from head to toe, but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when you catch sight of the bus stop. “Hey, have you ever been on a bus before?”

“Have I – what?” He scoffs. “Why’d I need to take a bus? The power of teleportation, baby.” 

“For the fun of it? Here, hold this.” You thrust your binder into his arms; he takes the paper-leaden file with an undignified yelp, and you fish through your bag for your wallet. “Just because I’m super generous and wonderful and you’re probably broke anyway, I’ll get you your ticket.” 

“Really? You gotta pay to go on one of these things?” His eyes flicker over the heavy rims of his shades, surveying the bus. “Looks like a pile of junk to me.” 

“It’s a pile of junk, sure, but I love getting the bus. You’re surrounded by people, and yet, no one feels the obligation to talk to one another. It’s great.” You pull Mammon up onto the step, and hand the bus driver a crinkled note, beaming at him from behind your scarf. “Two, please!” 

“You taking the kid to the park, miss?” The driver chuckles, handing you back two stamped tickets; and you realize that he’s talking about Mammon, who is hanging out of your hand with a confused expression, his head turning on his neck. Every single inch of the locomotive is being taken in, like he’ll never see a bus again. 

“Nah, just down for ice cream,” you grin back, and his bristly moustache leaps with laughter. 

“Alright, have a nice day, now.” 

*

As promised, ice cream is had, the two of your wandering along the pier in the buffeting winds as you lick carefully at dripping cones. This is after a thorough investigation of the local amusement park, where Mammon screamed on every single rollercoaster, and spent way too much money trying to win you a teddy bear that, realistically, was the size of a car. But as per usual, Lady Luck was not on his side, and you came away with a white bunny tied to your bag (equally as cute, in your opinion).

Now, the cold is burning through your bones, the wind raging against you as it punishes you for daring to pretend that it’s still summer; but you don’t care. That is, until you accidentally whack yourself in the nose with your cone, spreading cold ice cream across the tip. You almost scream in shock.  
“Whaddyra – hey!” Mammon turns so quickly that his ice cream takes a majestic dive, splattering down against the pavement in a fell swoop. A curse is uttered, before he groans, snagging your elbows and steadying you in front of him.

“I dropped my ice cream, Drama Queen.” 

“It’s cold.” Your teeth are quite literally chattering; with a roll of his eyes, he leans in, and kisses your nose gently, wiping the sugary cream away from your skin. 

Oh.

Oh. 

You’re suddenly flushing again, all feelings of frost forgotten. An unusually tender gesture from the Avatar of Greed – but not one that you want to end on. Your ice cream lands beside his, forgotten, as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your level. 

Your lips meet, the taste of chocolate and vanilla lingering on your tongues as you kiss each other. He sighs into the embrace; as if he has been waiting forever and a day just to touch you, his hands weaving a map of tender caresses up your back, across your shoulders, your spine. You smile in ecstasy.

“Mammon?”

“Mm?” He pulls back, the lenses of his glasses steamed slightly, and you can’t help but grin. 

“Don’t leave. Not tonight. Stay for a day or two. Please? I – “ 

It takes a lot, but you manage to admit it, somehow.

“I miss you.” 

“Hey…” Mammon’s cheeks are, once again, peach. “Hey, M/C, ya know I can’t do that.” 

“You – “ 

“If I could –” he stops you in your tracks, still as tightly coiled around you as is humanly possible, “If I could –” and one of his hands find your jaw, his thumb tracing a gentle pattern down your skin. “I would spend every day of your dang life here. But I can’t. I gotta go back, ya know that.”

“I… yeah. I know.” You shut your eyes, briefly feeling the burning of tears behind them once more. Not again. Not again. He can’t disappear into the ether – like this was all an imagining, when all you’ll have left is a couple of text messages on a phone that can hardly get signal here. “When’ll you come back?”

“Fast as I can,” Mammon insists, an atypical weight to his words. Your gazes lock once more; and you think, perhaps this time, that you’ll believe him.


	8. Satan: Hair Dye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some SFW Satan angst. Inspired by this HC:   
> https://twitter.com/obey_satasmon/status/1303003729679900679?s=21  
> Ty ty <3

The last thing that you needed this weekend was an essay on the Devildom’s rarest poisonous plants, but here you are – 8 PM on a Friday night, laden down with heavy textbooks and the weight of ignorance. Poisonous plants of the Devildom? Aren’t they all poisonous? This place is a damn deathtrap.  
Your shoes echo despondently in the foyer, and you toss your bag and books down by the door, haphazard in your weariness. Let Lucifer chastise you about the mess later – you have no idea how you’re even going to start this paper, and there’s one person that knows more about anything than – well, anyone. Satan’s room is your destination.

You quickly climb the stairs, marching towards the door that is tucked away at the end of the hall – the long, tall cupboard room, that houses all of Satan’s rarest treasures, his collectibles. It makes you sad down here, sometimes. How dark it is, how small – the spiral staircase a necessity, to make sure as much of the room as possible is in use. Shelves cover every inch of the walls, the door, even the ceiling. And that’s because he was shoved away at the end of the House of Lamentation, an afterthought. 

Maybe. 

When you come to Satan’s room, you’re surprised to see that it’s pitch black when you stick your head in – the stillness of the shadows are cloying, too close for anyone to be present. Definitely not in here. You didn’t hear him arguing with Levi in the sitting room over the volume of his video games – so he’s not downstairs. He wasn’t in the RAD library – you’d just come from there. 

That only left a handful of possible locations. The Planetarium? No, that was Belphegor’s favourite napping spot. Certainly not the kitchen. Hmm… well, the essay could wait. You’re still hot and sticky from being encased in the polystyrene monstrosity that the exchange students are issued all week. You stop by your room and shrug off your blazer, grabbing your towel and hairbrush. Maybe you could sneak some of Asmo’s fancier bath products and have a bit of a Friday treat. 

A tuneless whistle passes between your lips as you head towards the shared bathroom on the second floor. It’s a grand monument, paved in beige-gold marble, with fixtures large enough to accommodate even the broadest of your demon housemates (cough, Beel, cough). Much more luxurious than anything you had ever come across in the Human World; so personal hygiene time had begun to become a bit of a treat. Filling the tub up to the top, lilac and rose bubbles – the scent of poppies and irises soaking into your skin – 

You’re halted in the tracks of your little bath fantasy, your eyes finding the crack in the door, light spilling out onto the floorboards. Oh. Occupado? You place a hand on the surface, and push it open slightly, wincing as it creaks.

There’s the elusive Avatar of Wrath – perched on the edge of the jagged stone countertop, his shirt and jacket coiled on the floor. Oh, wow, oh, wow, that’s, um. That’s distracting. It’s difficult to conceptualize the fact that this being in front of you was never an angel – the chiselled, fine lines of his chest could have been cut from bedrock for how firm they are, the perfect depiction of the idealized man. Across his shoulders, the finest sprinkle of bronze freckles, tiny nebulas encircling glowing suns. Oh, Satan.

You manage to tear your eyes away from his sculpted body, finding his jarring expression in an instant. Shocked, is one word for it. Angry is another. Wait, no – not angry. Frustrated. Frustrated and… ashamed.

Because he’s holding a squeeze bottle in one hand, having parted his hair with messy fingers; right down the middle. Shining between filaments of gold is the darkest hair you’ve ever seen – darker than Lucifer’s, even. As black as night and equally deep, it eventually fades into Satan’s trademark blond locks. 

You stand there a moment, your mouth slightly agape, before you take another step in, and shut the door behind you. A bold move, one might say. A foolish move, another might. But… there’s a particular kind of… embarrassment in his expression, one that reassures you that he’s not about to freak out and toss you through the window, or anything.

“Uh…” You carefully place your towel down on the side of the sink. “I didn’t realize. You dyed your hair, I mean.” 

“That’s the idea,” he says dryly, turning back to the looking glass in front of him. A piercing cerulean gaze dresses you down in the process. The Satan that stares back at you from the mirror is equally as perfect as the one before you; save for one fact. 

He lacks the warmth of your favourite brother. 

“You don’t get it done in a salon?” Surely he had the money. After all, he was one of the seven Princes of Hell. And that student council job surely paid something. 

“No.” A derisive snort, and Satan puts the bottle down, turning away from you. You see it in the tight slump of his shoulders – the defensive walls being thrown up. Cold, patronizing. “You think I want my little dye job to be on the front page of ever gossip rag in the Devildom?” 

“Well, judging by your reaction…” You reach over for good measure, turning the ornate key in the lock. It clicks, and you’re now caged with the lion. “I’m guessing not.” 

“Mmm.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” You boost yourself up onto the counter. 

“What makes you think I want to talk about it?” A sneer curls his lip, but you brush it away. This abrasive outside of snark and ridicule – that’s not Satan, and you and he both know that you know that. 

“Because you want to talk about it,” you say gently, nudging the bottle further from his hand, and passing your fingers over the top of his. There’s an almost imperceptible flinch. However, his trace remains, a soft sigh making itself known. Even his desolate breaths are lyrical, full of weight and life. 

“Please, tell me.” 

“There’s not much to tell,” is his reply. Now, he refuses to look at you, his eyes finding images you cannot see. “I… you can see.” A gesture to his ragged straw locks, bordering those ink roots. “You can see him.” 

The word is like blood in his mouth. Your hand tightens on his; your errant fingers slipping up around his arm, until you’re wrapped around him once more. 

All of a sudden, he’s leaning into the comfort of your touch. His heavy head finds its home beneath your breastbone; breaths becoming shallow, uneven, dark eyelashes flickering against your skin. You push your hands back through his hair.

You remain like that – maybe for five minutes, maybe for an hour, you don’t know. You don’t care. When he pulls back for you, his mouth is no longer set in that grim line. 

You see him.

He knows this.

Your fingers find the sharpness of his chin, and you tilt it up slightly, a smile ghosting over your lips; you kiss him gently. 

“Bet you’d look hotter than Lucifer if you stopped bleaching your hair.” 

“I’m already hotter than Lucifer,” he answers smartly, with a roll of his eyes, and your laugh echoes around the cavernous room.

“I’ll give you that. Let me help, I can reach the back.” 

“Are you sure? Don’t you have better things to…” he glances at the towel, and back to you. “Apparently not. Alright. I will permit you to bleach my hair.” 

“Permit me? I’m doing you a favour,” you tease, reaching for the applicator – examining it briefly, to make sure that everything is adequately integrated – before pausing. 

“You know… I could probably do this better if you were between my legs.” 

“Oh?” He arches a glittering brow, his lips curling into a barbed smirk; but, almost obediently, steps between your thighs, positioning himself against you. His warm, bare back smarts through your thin shirt; your stomach in danger of backflipping into the abyss of your own desire, you try to focus on the task at hand.

You paint a careful line of bleach where the tide of his ashy hair meets his natural roots, and begin to carefully brush it through with your comb. “So. Daddy issues?” 

“That isn’t funny in any of the Three Realms,” he snorts, but a grin forces its way onto his face, despite his resolve. “I… You know, when I… I look at myself, and all I see is… Lucifer.” 

You meditate on his words, concentrating so that you avoid painting the bleach onto his forehead. Still but breathing, energy passing between you; not particularly expectant of each other, but sharing the moment – sharing the desolate, resolved sadness. 

“Satan…” your voice echoes your soft touch, having reached the apex of his bane – the parting of his hair. “I…”

The quiet returns. The beating of your heart is lush in your throat.

“I can’t sit here and tell you how similar you are to Lucifer, or how different you are, or whatever it is I think you want to hear. But… I can tell you that… I…” Your cheeks are warm beneath the low lights of the bathroom, and you think that if Satan stares at you with any more intensity, you might die. I think I want you. I think I love you, you magnificent, broken thing. “Agh, I’m sorry.” 

“No. Tell me.” His voice is gentle, but commanding; his possessive hand curling around your thigh.

“I’d rather a single moment of your time than a million of his,” you manage to murmur, your head dipping in embarrassment. Satan’s feather light fingers find your chin. 

He kisses you. 

You taste it all – his pain, his fear, his desperate search for validation – encompassed in the bruising ferocity of his lips, the way that he consumes you, until the only thing that you can think is an echo of the way he makes you feel, over and over and over again.


	9. *Satan: In Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW Admiral Satan. *wiggles eyebrows*

You know Satan; you daresay at this stage in your relationship, you know him well. One of his more… endearing traits is his interest in analysing – anything and everything, from literature to labwork. The pen and notebook that hides in the back pocket of his trousers is constantly active – spent ones hiding in unruly stacks, lining the spindly staircase to the next floor of his room. So of course, you should have realized that when you were discussing wedding traditions – in particular, bachelorette parties – that he would be paying attention.  
You’d seen poor imitations of policemen and builders before – a kind of human rite of passage in a sweaty bar, choked up in cheap lace and smelling of booze. That was your expectation of that kind of… roleplay. You’d laughed about it, with Asmo. Said it was ridiculous. Wondered why anyone would want to get off with some random man in uniform for the sake of what the piece of fabric meant.  
But Satan is… Satan. So refined. So intelligent, so… wonderful, in so many ways, that if someone asked you to imagine him like that, you would have found it impossible. And yet… the silver-tongued demon has a terrible habit of surprising you – as you are to learn, of course.   
You slip into his room, your usual evening-time ritual; depositing your book-bag at the foot of the iron staircase, beginning to creep up it in good time. It creaks with each step, tinny and unsettling; you try to cushion the sound as a matter of instinct, so not as to interrupt Satan if he’s in the middle of a particularly fetching book.  
To your surprise, he isn’t there, waiting for you – not like he usually would be. No matter to that, though. It’s happened once or twice that he’s gotten waylaid at the library, busy chatting to Asmo or mocking Mammon, so you slip your shoes off and crawl onto his large, comfortable bed.   
It’s as disorganized as his bookshelves, but the sheets are clean and smell like him; and that’s all you need to enjoy yourself. You manage to find a little nook where you can prop your shoulders up straight, scrolling through your Devilgram timeline with an errant thumb as you make yourself at home.  
Tap.  
Tap.  
Tap.  
The slick sound of boots against metal, snappy and uncompromising, draw your eyes to the staircase once more.  
You notice the colour, first – the shining, satin crimson that plays with the light, cut with gold to fill out his broad shoulders. It’s – oh. Oh. You find yourself jolting forward as Satan emerges from the shadows like a spectre.   
The uniform is perfect, pin straight – a tarry black shirt contrasts against his cream skin, hidden mostly by the bold vermillion of his double-breasted jacket. Medals shimmer in the half-light, clicking softly against each other as Satan approaches the bed. The only thing that could even be considered out of place are his unruly locks; gold tendrils of hair escaping from beneath his peaked cap.   
A slight smile crosses his features. In any other circumstances – for anyone else – you would dismiss the fantasy in a fit of chuckles, but this… this is something else. Satan’s formal wear has transformed him into someone that you’re not sure you’ve seen before. Kind Satan, yes. Wrathful Satan, yes. Teasing, frustrated, interested, aroused…   
Now, his sharp grin and guarded eyes exude nothing but raw, uncompromised power. Everything south of your navel clenches. What is it about the damn uniform that makes him --?  
“Who told you to sit?” He asks quietly. His shadow is thrown over the bedsheets, the scent of anticipation heavy in your nostrils.   
“Satan?”  
“I’m sorry?” The word is beyond dangerous on his lips; with the flick of his wrist, you notice that his gloved hands encircle an intimidating, narrow whip. “Is that the correct way to refer to your commanding officer, darling?”   
“I… apologise… Sir.” An octave lower than usual, and yet; the words seem to ring around the room, the toll of a bell. “I wasn’t… expecting you.”   
“You should always be expecting me.” He takes the leather implement between his finger and thumb, propping it beneath your chin; the cold material bites into your skin. Back and forth, very carefully, so that he might better see your face. See the way that it catches the darkness, lives in it. Drinks from it. Despite the uncertainty, your eyes drip with utter trust, complete helplessness. “As I understand it, I’m going to have to teach you the rules again. Sit up. On your knees in front of me.”   
You slip into a carefully submissive stance. The tip of the whip glides across your skin, down the curve of your neck and shoulder; over your lower back, coaxing goosebumps from you. With each breath, your inhalations become shallower, more intense.   
“Now, now.” A smooth purr from between his tantalisingly deceptive lips. And with it, comes the lightest breeze as he inches up the hem of your skirt; the whip momentarily resting at the base of your spine, tickling your skin. “Hm. I have plenty of respect for the uniform, of course, but I’d much prefer –”  
To rip this to shreds with my bare hands –  
“To see this on the floor.” The implement leaves a trail of fire in its wake as Satan drags it leisurely over your body; eventually positioning it at the hollow of your throat, and with a measured, precise force, undoes the first button of your blouse.   
You swallow. The sensation sends a small tremor through his arm; focus briefly leaving him as he watches the way that your breath ripples under duress. Second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, until your chest is exposed, the moonlight living in your collarbones, the cleft of your chest. Oh, sweet Father, how can anyone concentrate when you’re around?   
Satan’s teeth clamp down on the tip of his glove, unsheathing his acid green fingernails. And, repeat, until both of his bare hands are setting the whip aside and he is taking your chin between his finger and thumb, encouraging it up so that he can examine you features more clearly.  
“I want to see you,” he murmurs, his eyes alight with emerald fire. With those words, you see past the cocky exterior, the brusque commitment to character; there is only Satan and his vulnerability. He draws you up onto your knees. His scorching touch rounds your sharp chin, lacing through your hair and tugging you closer.  
Inches separate you, the heady buzz of your impassioned breaths a specific kind of high; he kisses you then, silencing your gasp with his lips.  
The moment the pair of you meet, it is fire. Coursing through your veins, sheer electricity as you taste the ferocity of his embrace – instinct pushes you forward, your hands moving to find his shoulders, looking for an anchor so that you might keep your head above the waters of his desire.  
He chuckles, though, breaking the kiss for a brief moment as he snags your errant arms. Your body meets the bed, knees out from under you. Gasp.   
“Ah, ah,” he hums; and with the speed of the Devil, unknots his snow-white tie and loops it around your wrists. Carefully hooks it to the headboard; bingo. “You’ll stay still for me, kitten, I know you will.”   
“Satan,” you whine, and the sound of his name in your mouth is utter annihilation, but he doesn’t allow himself to be distracted. Because now you’re heaving, your arousal rippling through your body. The soft cotton of his starched jacket brushes against your bare hips. Hands on either side of you, Satan uses the opportunity to place another chaste kiss on your lips; the tip of his nose skimming over your sensitive skin, the dual point of his tongue accompanying the concentrated impression.  
“Satan – ah! Please,” you plead, your back arching; an iron grip guides your waist to the sheets again. Another kiss between your breasts; down over your abdomen, and pausing, just at the junction of your sex. You’re trying your best not to squirm – of course you are – but you’re already soaking wet.   
His eyes meet yours, still brimming with mossy mirth. He slowly, deliberately, blows a breath across your cunt. And then, presses a further kiss to the top of your thigh, his smile searing your muscles.  
“Satan –”   
“Tell me.”   
“Please just fuck me, will you?” The crass word in your beautiful mouth sets his nerve endings aflame, and a strong hand separates your legs. Satan’s arousal is obvious in those military issued trousers.  
“Your impatience is astounding.” He positions his hat atop your head, and undoes the first button on his pants. Your eyes follow his every move.  
“I need you,” you almost cry in desperation; especially once you see how hard he is for you. “S-Satan –”   
He kisses you again as he takes you, the sharp sensation of his cock as welcome as it was the first time he fucked you. Satan’s fingers hook into the bindings at your wrists. Extra leverage, extra energy with which to spearhead you on his length; and with the honeyed intensity of each thrust comes the sound of your name, weighted on his lips like a dying prayer.   
“So sweet,” he keens into your ear. “Don’t you know what a privilege it is to own this body of yours?”   
Your answer is an incomprehensible scream. All you can feel is how well he fills you; how each sweet, torturous propulsion sends you to the ends of the earth and back again in the matter of a split second. Your wrists flex against the bonds, fingers curling into your palms as you itch once more to touch him.   
The curves of your body sing for him, flaming through the fabric of his shirt; his hand at the small of your back, ushering you closer with every movement. Buttons chafing against your skin. Cold metal, silken rope, the scent of prestige and sex; Satan’s head rocks back on his shoulders, his voice cracking underneath the pressure.  
Your next reedy mewl is what undoes him, coming in a slew of garbled praises and profanities; his bastardized creed colouring the air. In his heated orgasm, you feel the smooth tearing of skin on your shoulder, beneath his sharp teeth. The salted edge of pain harmonizes wonderfully with your overstimulated body; you join him in his exultations. You’re over the edge, finished. Every single cell in your human body is drained of energy.  
From beside you, Satan turns, to press a soft kiss to the bruise he’s left. His lips linger there.


End file.
